


broken mirror

by Areiton



Series: The Left Hand [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But he's trying, Emotional Trauma, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Left Hand Peter Hale, Left Hand Stiles Stilinski, M/M, PTSD, Post-Nogitsune, Scott McCall is not a good alpha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 06:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15480072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Sometimes he thinks about how things might have changed, how Stiles might have changed, if he had ignored Stiles’ tremulous no, and bitten him as his instincts screamed.But that--that is neither here nor there.





	broken mirror

It happens slow, and all at once. 

Peter sees it first, but then he always saw it--the future was clear to him as he held Stiles by the wrist and  _ offered _ him the bite. 

Sometimes he thinks about how things might have changed, how Stiles might have changed, if he had ignored Stiles’ tremulous no, and bitten him as his instincts screamed. 

But that--that is neither here nor there. 

Christopher mentions it after the nogitsune--after Allison and Victoria and finding refuge in Peter’s arms. They come home, and he isn’t whole, but none of them are whole and he is  _ better _ , as best as any can expect. 

He mentions it, then. A month or so after their return, when they’re leaving the pack meeting, his eyes lingering on Stiles near the wall, the almost blank expression on the boy’s face. 

“He isn’t ok,” Christopher says, later that night, while Peter prepares their dinner. 

“Did you think he would be?” Peter asks, genuinely curious. 

“I hoped,” Chris admits, and Peter feels his gut twist, because he had hoped, too. 

He finishes their dinner, and sits next to his lover, the unlikeliest of men for him to love, and says, “Do you know what I was, in Talia’s pack?” 

Chris shakes his head, but it’s hesitant and Peter smiles, sardonically. This is one of the many things they don’t talk about--Allison, Victoria, Peter’s dead wife and pup, the fire, Kate, the dead they both bear the weight of--but. Still. 

“I was the Left,” he says. “The one who buried the bodies and kept the secrets and did  _ anything _ to keep our pack safe. And I did, Christopher. Our pack was safe, and strong. I was drenched in blood and the sins my sister couldn’t commit, but our pack was safe and strong. And that was enough.” 

Christopher is staring at him, but there isn’t pity there. There isn’t shock. There is sorrow, and understanding and for the first time, Peter wonders if Chris might understand. 

If he was the one cleaning up Gerard’s messes and keeping them from growing. 

He shuts down that line of thought, because he loves Christopher, against all odds and sense. 

“Stiles--he’s Scott’s Left Hand?” Christopher asks, now, his voice shaking. 

“Since before Scott was an alpha,” Peter answers, gently. “He’s a natural, better even than I was.” 

“But--Peter--” he breaks off, and Peter sighs, sets aside the dinner neither are eating and draws Christopher into his arms. 

“We can’t do anything yet, love.” Peter murmurs. “He isn’t ready. Not yet.” 

~*~ 

It takes time. Watching the shadows in his eyes gather, watching the way he held himself brittle and apart. Christopher tries, bringing him coffee and books when he’s deep in research, food and forcing him to sleep, dragging him to Peter’s for dinner and company when his father worked long hours, working on the jeep when it inevitably broke down. 

Still. 

For all that Christopher  _ tried, _ there was very little that could be done. 

Stiles walked a path marked with shadows and death, doing all the things that Scott refused to. 

He never asked permission, and he never apologized, and as the blood that coated his hand began to accumulate--he never faltered, when the rest of his pack flinched away. He was perfect, everything that Peter had seen in him that night in the parking garage come to fruition, and it made him  _ ache _ to see it, to see the way it hollowed Stiles out and left him empty. 

~*~ 

Scott loves Stiles. 

Peter thinks it would be less painful for both of them if he didn’t. If he honestly hated the pale boy who had made himself a killer in Scott’s name. 

Instead, he keeps trying to understand who Stiles is becoming, and why. He keeps trying to make Stiles into something  _ better _ , into something wholesome and good and Peter watches, from the edges of the pack where he and Chris always seem to linger, and he hates Scott for it. 

“Leave it alone,” he finally snaps, after Stiles has killed a werehyena that’s wandered into their territory and fixated on Malia. 

“Stay out of this,” Scott snarls, eager to turn his fury on someone other than Stiles. 

“You’re angry that he’s doing his  _ job,”  _ Peter says, and his voice is mocking and cold. “But if he weren’t--if he let all the dark dangerous things wander through Beacon Hills--how many more would die, so you can cling to your damned morality? How many more would die while you  _ argued _ about how to reform creatures that don’t  _ want  _  to be reformed?” 

Stiles is watching him, his eyes wide and startled and Christopher makes a pained noise. 

“You don’t know shit about beign reformed. You never even  _ tried.” _

That--that stings. Peter flinches back and Stiles huffs. 

“Leave Peter alone. He hasn’t done anything to hurt you or the pack, or anyone who doesn’t deserve it, since Kate died.” 

That makes Scott stop, cold. 

Because Stiles killing--he could deal with that. He’d never like it, never condone or even accept it--but he could deal with it. 

Stiles defending Peter. 

“I don’t--,” Scott stops, and shakes his head, and his expression is baffled and almost angry. “Who  _ are _ you, man? What the fuck happened?” 

Stiles makes a noise that could almost be called a laugh. “You became an alpha,” he says, exhausted. “And I became your killer.” 

~*~ 

“I’m not waiting,” Christopher snaps, pacing the length of the bedroom. He’s in black and a gun is tucked into his thigh holster, and he smells of wolfsbane and leather and Peter thinks that it is strange to love someone like him--but he does. 

He  _ does. _

“He shouldn’t have to do this alone,” Chris snarls and Peter nods. 

“No, he shouldn’t.” He stands and reaches into his trunk of poison and potions and produces a jar of dead man’s blood. “Shall we help him kill some vampires?” 

~*~ 

Stiles doesn’t seem surprised to see them, or particularly appreciative. But he nods his thanks, when it’s over, and Peter has patched him up, before he drives home, and Christopher huffs and drags Peter to bed. 

~*~ 

Peter pauses in the doorway as Christopher reaches for the lights, aware of the rapid heartbeat, the quick, hitching breath. 

“Stiles,” he breathes, and Stiles stares at him, miserably, from the couch. 

His hands are still bloody and there’s a bruise forming on his cheek, and Peter wonders through the initial wave of fury, what caused it. 

What he was doing, to protect Scott and his damn puppies, that hurt him.

“How--” his voice cracks and he let’s out a sob, and Peter jerks into motion, darting across the room to gather the sobbing boy into his arms. “How do you  _ do  _ this, Peter? I’m  _ trying _ and I  _ can’t.”  _

It’s been five years. Five years of nonstop threats and death, of judgments and killing and fighting to survive, and this boy, this beautiful boy, is shattering apart. 

Before the fire, Peter stood as the Left Hand for a year or two, before he took a sabbatical, forced someone into his place for a few months while he hid and recovered. 

Stiles has never had that, likely didn’t even know it was an option, and the weight of it, is shattering him apart. 

He sobs as Peter holds him, these quiet, shaking things, clinging with a desperation that would terrify Peter, if he didn’t know any better. 

And Peter let’s him. He holds the boy close, hums quietly in his ear as he maneuvers them, pulls Stiles into his lap on the couch and tucks him under his chin, stroking his back as the boy cries himself out. 

Chris tugs off his shoes, and rubs his feet, pressed as close as possible, quietly supportive and grounding. 

He falls asleep there. They both fall asleep, and Peter holds Stiles, soothing him when he shivers and whimpers in the dark, until the sun begins to rise. 

Stiles doesn’t stir when he wakes. It’s only the change in is heartbeat, the soft inhale against Peter’s neck, that tells him he’s awake, and Peter’s arms tighten around him. 

For a long time, they’re quiet. And then, his voice hoarse and soft, Stiles asks, “How did you do it? I thought I could--but it’s so hard, Peter. I’m so lonely.” 

“I know, darling,” Peter murmurs. 

“I don’t want to do this,” he says, plaintively. 

“You don’t have to. You can walk away.” 

“Did you?” Stiles asks, craning his head to look at Peter. 

“Sometimes. Not completely, but yes, sometimes, I needed to stop. You’re allowed to do that.” 

Stiles shudders against him, his hands digging into Peter’s sides. “And people die, while I’m off having a break. How is that fair?” 

“How is it fair to take care of everyone else, and never take care of yourself?” Peter asks, softly. He tips Stiles head up and peers at him. “How is it fair to never let anyone take care of you?” 

“No one wants to take care of me,” Stiles says, and his heartbeat is so steady it makes Peter violent. 

How  _ dare _ they. How dare they treat him like he was useless, like he was disposable and unwanted? 

“We do,” Christopher rumbles, and Stiles glances at him. A flush is rising in his cheeks, like he’s suddenly remembering that he’s in Peter’s lap, and Peter’s lover is at their side. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Peter murmurs, rubbing a thumb over the sharp curve of Stiles’ jaw. “Just listen.” 

“I should go--” 

“You asked how. How I did it. I didn’t. Not the way you do--I was never alone, Stiles. Even when I was Talia’s left hand, even when I was burying the bodies--I was never alone. I had my wife and my sister, and my nieces. I had--” he breaks off, because that’s not his story to tell. 

“Me,” Christopher says. “He had me. And I had him. I was the one who buried every atrocity my sister and father made, the one who arranged reparations and saved as many as I could. I was alone, fighting for werewolves, in a family that wanted them dead, and Peter kept me sane. He reminded me of why I was fighting.” 

Stiles is staring at them, wide eyed and Peter says, gently. “You are an amazing Left Hand. You’ve fought like hell to keep your pack safe, and they don’t deserve half of what you’ve done. But it doesn’t make you any  _ less _ to accept help. And we  _ want _ to help you.” 

“How?” Stiles asks, cautiously. “You already help me hunt.” 

Peter smiles. “You’re smart, Stiles. What do you think we’re offering?” 

A blush, a pretty pink, stains his cheeks and he bites his lip, consideringly, before he leans forward, and brushes the softest of kisses over Peter’s lips. 

Does the same to Chris, and sighs, soft and sweet, when Christopher drags him closer and deepens it. 

~*~ 

He still has nightmares. 

Shadows still lurk in his gaze, and his expression goes tight and hurt when Scott gives him a disapproving frown. 

It’s not perfect, will  _ never _ be perfect, because he walks in darkness with blood soaked hands. 

But now, Chris is there, drawing him into bed with a gentle touch. Now, Peter is there, holding him when he’s silent and shaking. Now, when he wakes, sweating and panicked and thrashing, Peter presses into his chest, kissing him calm, while Christopher rocks against his back, grounding him. 

He’s not alone. They reflect him back, a broken mirror image, distorted and not quite whole, but still, something achingly beautiful and good. 

It’s enough. 


End file.
